


Beyond Expectations

by foxieswirl (codenamelazarus), YakuzaDog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Apologies, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, Guilty Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, OOC John, Post-Reichenbach, Reunions, Understanding John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamelazarus/pseuds/foxieswirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/YakuzaDog/pseuds/YakuzaDog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock anticipates many possible reactions from John as a result of his return.</p><p>He does not, however, expect John to forgive him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Expectations

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this last year for the 2013 Sherlock Mini-Bang, however my artist partner, foxieswirl, and I were unable to submit it in time to be included with the project.
> 
> Edit: Also, if you're wondering about the OOC tag, I initially wrote this fic before I really had a clear understanding of what Sherlock's and - more specifically - John's characters were /actually/ supposed to be like. However, series 3 helped clear it up a LOT for me. So... John in this fic really should have been a lot more angry than he actually is lmao. But Sherlock's still pretty in-character, which I'm pleased about.

Sherlock anticipates many possible reactions from John as a result of his return.

He expects John to be upset. He expects John to be furious. He expects John to hit him.  He expects John to grieve. He expects John to shun him. He expects John to hate him.

He does not, however, expect John to forgive him.

Sherlock holds these predictions close to him as he strides down the pavement to Baker Street, enters through the slate wooden door, climbs the tread-worn staircase, and stands before the threshold of 221b.

It has been nearly three years since Sherlock plunged off the rooftop of Bart’s. Now, after many months’ worth of covert hiding, tedious hunting of classified names, and eliminating said adversaries, things are safe again.

John is safe. That’s all that matters.

Ever since the day Moriarty ghosted over Sherlock’s shoulder and whispered wicked threats into his ear _—_ promises to kill the people Sherlock held closest to his heart unless he took the fall himself _—_ ever since that day, Sherlock has felt guilt.

Guilt, but not regret.

Sherlock does not regret his actions.

He never wanted to leave. He never wanted to hurt John. But he had to. A hurt John is better than a dead John. He saved him.

John is safe. That’s all that matters.

Even if he never forgives Sherlock ( _which he won’t, he definitely will not_ ) it was all for the best.

Sherlock repeats this in his head like a mantra as he wills himself to step forward and rap his knuckles against the entryway door.

_Just tell him the truth. Tell him the facts. Tell him—_

Sherlock straightens as he hears faint footsteps shuffle towards the door.

The door swings open and Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat as John appears in the doorway. The army doctor’s eyes reach his face and John’s grip on the door handle loosens, his hand falling limply to his side.

John.

 _Oh, it’s him_. _His_ John. It’s been so long since Sherlock has last seen him. Sherlock feels warmth spread through his chest from the long-awaited sight of John.

It’s not long before the affectionate warmth flushes from him as he takes in John’s widening eyes, stiffening shoulders, and clenching fists. Guilt pools in his stomach, unease rises in his throat like bile.

John’s eyes, wide still, rapidly search Sherlock’s face, his being, before his brow furrows and his jaw sets rigidly, his gaze hardening into a piercing stare.

Sherlock gathers his voice and breathes, “John.”

John immediately turns his head, their eye contact abruptly disengaging as he clamps his eyes shut. His knuckles are clenched white at his sides.

Seconds pass. Neither men move. The flat is deafeningly silent.

Why hasn’t John done anything yet? Sherlock expected John to have at least started screaming at him by now (if he hadn’t already shoved him out of the door).

John’s expression is impossible to read at the moment. His facial features and posture are completely closed off as if he is holding himself back. Back from what though? He could be about to launch into a full-out verbal assault or perhaps a more violent and physical in nature attack. Either way, Sherlock cannot tell.

_Maybe he won’t react negatively. Maybe he’s relieved that you’re back. Maybe he—_

No, no. Stop. Absolutely not possible.

Sherlock attempts to restrain his buzzing thoughts. He needs to focus. He needs to focus on John. He needs to speak _now_.

“John, I owe you an explanation. I need to—“

“Sherlock,” John cuts in with a stern voice.

Sherlock’s mouth snaps shut, all his attention fixed on the sharp blue eyes that returned to face his.

John’s face is utterly neutral as he punctuates gravely. “Just tell me _why_ you did it. Tell me everything right _now_.”

Sherlock can only find the strength to nod shakily in reply.

John steps aside to let Sherlock in. He turns and saunters over to his worn red armchair. He sits down heavily, his hands bundled in his lap, as he looks ahead towards Sherlock’s grey leather chair, still sitting in the same place as it did years ago.

Sherlock is surprised that John still owns it. If anything, he imagines that it would only be a reminder of the friend that once would sit before him but in the end left him. _Betrayed him._

Sherlock quickly unravels his scarf and removes his heavy coat. He folds them and gently places them over the back of the nearest desk chair.

This once familiar routine, a shedding of a long day’s worth of hard work, a comfortable welcoming back into what once was called his home, no longer feels the same. Instead, it feels like entering a stranger’s territory; unfamiliar, uncomfortable, unwelcome. Sherlock can only hope that John does not entirely regard him this way, as well.

_He does. He won’t forgive you._

Sherlock moves to face his respective armchair but his legs stiffen as he attempts to step forward.

What happens next, how John will react to Sherlock’s retelling of his actions, will most definitely change everything. Sherlock cannot imagine that the change will be anything remotely desirable. He hasn’t felt this much dread and fear weigh his bones since the day he walked away from a madman’s corpse and stepped up onto a building’s ledge, his hands clenched desperately onto a mobile that would deliver his final words.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and steps forward towards his chair. He lowers himself carefully, perching daintily on the chair’s edge, his posture straight. The leather feels firm from lack of use against his weight.

Sherlock carefully turns his eyes to meet John’s, however his gaze is elsewhere, unfocused on nothing in particular over Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock mutedly clears his throat and opens his mouth to begin speaking, when John suddenly lifts his hand to stop him.

“Wait,” John says.

He pauses, as if choosing his next words carefully. Sherlock’s heart beats loudly in his head with anticipation.

“Move your chair forward.”

Sherlock stares, confused by the sudden request. John wants him closer? Why does he…?

John meets his eyes. “You’re too far away. I can’t _—_ ” he clears his throat. “It’ll be easier to hear you this way.”

Oh.

Right. Of course. What Sherlock is about to say next is of profound importance. John needs to be able to hear him clearly. He didn’t ask Sherlock to move closer because he wants him nearby. _Obvious_.  Their arrangement probably just reminded him of one of his therapy sessions or something. Yes, that’s it.

_Stupid. Getting your hopes up. He wants you gone._

Sherlock silently obeys John’s request. He stands up and grabs the underside of his leather chair and pulls it forward until there’s about an arms-width length of space between them. Sherlock sits back down.

Okay, _now_ it’s time to explain. Time to tell John the truth.

_He’s going to hate you. He probably already does._

Sherlock clamps his eyes shut and pushes the thought away. He just needs to tell John the facts, why he did what he did and then it’s John’s decision from then on. What John rules of Sherlock’s choices after all is said is gospel; John gets to decide where Sherlock goes from then on. No matter what. Even if John curses and shrieks until his ears ring. Even if he leaves the flat with a beaten and bloodied face. Even if he never sees John again…

John deserves the final word.

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“John, believe me when I say that I had no choice in the actions that I elected to take since you last saw me. You were in danger. We were all in danger. Moriarty with his riddles, it was all a set up for my demise from the start. If I had neglected to do as he wanted, you would have died. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, all of you had hitmen aimed at you. If I had failed to illustrate my death…” Sherlock swallows thickly, his sentence faltering. “I could not let that happen by any means necessary.”

Sherlock pauses for a second to glance at John. He still isn’t looking at Sherlock, his facial features blank.

Sherlock continues, his voice hastening with urgency. “I had to leave to make sure that Moriarty would no longer be a threat to us.” _To you_ , the words whisper in the back of Sherlock’s mind. “The man—Moriarty—did kill himself on the rooftop that day, but I knew without a doubt that the danger did not end with just him. I left London in search of his accomplices. I took whatever means necessary to ensure that his men would not come after us.” _After you_.

John still isn’t moving. Why isn’t he moving? _What is he thinking?_

Words messily tumble out of Sherlock’s mouth. “John, I… I had to leave you. I couldn’t put you in danger. I wanted to tell you the truth, b-but I couldn’t risk the chance of you entering harm’s way again. I never wanted to lie to you or to leave you in the dark but I… You getting hurt was a possibility that I absolutely could not let become a reality.” Sherlock inhales deeply, his next words shaky on his tongue, but said with complete resolution. “My actions were selfish, but I do not regret them. You are safe and alive and breathing and I could not ask for more than that.”

It is at this point that John finally moves; he leans forward, his elbows braced on his knees, his face buried in his palms.

Oh no.

He knew this was inevitable, but Sherlock still doesn’t want to see the look of pain and anger and _hate_ on John’s face. He doesn’t want to leave John. He never wants to leave his side ever again.

Sherlock panics. “John, I am so sorry for whatever grief I have put you through. I-I never wanted to hurt you. I couldn’t—“ Sherlock chokes on his words. The corners of his eyes begin to burn. He tilts his head down to urge the sensation away. “Please, John, I never wanted any of this. I’m so sorry. Please—“

“Sherlock.”

John’s voice breaks Sherlock out of his babbling. He swiftly looks up at John, eyes full of fear.

His voice is gentle. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” The corner of his mouth quirks into a hint of a smile. “It’s alright, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gapes. What is he saying…?

John clears his throat and scoots forward in his chair. His knee gently brushes against Sherlock’s. “You know, I um… I don’t blame you. I understand and I, well yes, I was… upset over what you did.” He pauses and huffs out a quiet laugh. “I nearly did knock you flat when I first saw you show up at the door. But I didn’t. I knew that you had a reason. You always have reasons.” He smiles warmly. “I’m glad I heard you out.”

Sherlock can’t believe what he’s hearing. John isn’t mad? At all? He’s _glad_?

“However, I am still a bit mad that you decided not to fill me in on what you were doing.”

“I wanted to!” Sherlock blurts out. “John, I wanted to but there wasn’t time and I—“

John lays his hand on Sherlock’s knee to calm him. “Hey, shush. It’s fine. I understand.” He reassures. “I know you didn’t have a choice in this and I don’t blame you for trying to protect me. If it were me, I would have considered doing the same, really.”

The warmth from John’s hand and the soothing tone of his voice comforts Sherlock. John really _isn’t_ that mad at him. Hope begins to bloom in his chest.

John’s fingers lightly squeeze Sherlock’s knee. “But… I think that if it were me who had to make the decision, I still would have told you.”

Sherlock tenses at his words, guilt reappearing to dampen his newfound relief. He can feel wetness start to tickle the edges of his eyes.

John feels Sherlock stiffen under his fingers. John gives him another gentle squeeze. “Sherlock, I’d do a lot to keep you safe, I really would. And I will. I always will want to stay by your side and make sure you don’t get into any trouble.” John smiles fondly. “And the same goes for you. We look after each other together. We’re a team and you’re my partner. I believe we should keep it that way.”

Sherlock is overwhelmed with the sheer amount of affection and kindness that John is granting him. He bows his head shamefully, tears rolling silently down his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, John. I truly am.” Sherlock murmurs.

“It’s okay. I forgive you, Sherlock. Don’t worry.” John soothes. “Besides… Moriarty was a mad bastard anyway. The whole thing with him was just a shitty situation from the start. Good riddance, I say.”

Sherlock chokes out a laugh. John’s smile widens at the sound of it.

“It’s amazing, really. You risked your life for me jumping from that building. You completely abandoned your identity and reputation that you valued so greatly. You left your home and London and everything and put your life on the line all by yourself… You did all that because—“

“For you.” Sherlock lifts his head. “I did it all for you.”

Sherlock sniffles and starts to mumble. “I just couldn’t risk losing you. I couldn’t risk your life. It’s the last thing I would ever want. Please believe me when I say that I never wanted to hurt you like I have, I just couldn’t—“

“Hey.” John leans forward. He lifts his hand from Sherlock’s knee and raises it to cup the side of his face. “It’s fine. It’s all fine. I believe you.” John’s eyes are filled with relief, sincerity, and love. “I always have believed in you.”

John raises his other hand to cradle Sherlock’s face gently in his hands. He leans forward and softly, oh so softly, presses his lips to Sherlock’s for a kiss.

 _Oh_. Sherlock definitely did not expect _this_. Not that he doesn’t welcome it, of course.

Sherlock closes his eyes and melts into John’s touch. He basks in the overwhelming warmth of John and forgiveness and home, but most importantly _John_.

It’s a chaste kiss, but by no means is it not bursting with passion. John’s fingers brush lightly against the dark curls that curtain Sherlock’s temples. His thumbs run soothing circles over Sherlock’s cheeks, wiping away the dampness that stains them.

John eventually pulls back to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s. His hands fall from his face and lay on Sherlock’s knees which are now tangled with John’s. They stay together like this for a minute, unmoving, breathing in each other, just relaxing and soaking in each other’s presence.

“God, I missed you so much.” John whispers softly.

“I missed you, too, John.”

John leans back to look into Sherlock’s eyes. He smiles. “Thank you. For everything.”

Sherlock smiles his first smile in a long time. He wraps his hands around John’s. “Anything for you, John.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [codenamelazarus](http://codenamelazarus.tumblr.com/) (aka foxieswirl) for supporting me with this project (this is my first ever attempt at writing fiction). She's been working on an accompanying drawing for this story, so I will be adding a link to it here as soon as she finishes. Until then, please feel free to [follow her or ](http://codenamelazarus.tumblr.com/)[my tumblr](http://yakuzadog.tumblr.com) blog for updates!
> 
> (Also, I swear, if anything in the above fic sounded familiar or was reminiscent to any _more recent canonical scenes_ , well... that was just a spectacular coincidence. (And yes, the universe has lazy Sundays, too, okay?))


End file.
